Vault 21C
by Rumour of an Alchemist
Summary: Alternate Universe. It's 1976 and the goblins of Gringotts have held a large mysterious device in a vault for centuries, ever since Salazar Slytherin and his ally Tsar Berendey sent it to them.
1. Vault 21C

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter.

Note: The following is an experimental piece of writing I originally put out to give those who have me on alert something to look at, whilst I scratched my head and rewrote (yet again) sections of other stories. It's set in an alternate universe where Salazar Slytherin went east after leaving Hogwarts, and ended up for a time in Russia, although he sent something _back_ to Britain after a while.

* * *

Deep below the cobbles of Diagon Alley and magical London is a Gringotts vault. It is a vault in an old and almost forgotten corridor, far from the mine-cart tracks, guarded not by dragons or magical waterfalls, but secured by those far more effective and insidious guardians, obscurity and nonentity.

Other than the heavy, antiquated, door of this one particular vault, there is nothing of interest in this dusty and cobweb laden corridor of seemingly neglected vaults, where doors otherwise stand open or are altogether missing and vaults are vacant or contain maintenance supplies or repair tools for use on more frequently visited, upper, levels of the bank. But although the rather plain and uninteresting looking door of this vault is pitted and dulled with age it is, nonetheless, a very _solid_ door, that a raging dragon would have difficulty getting past in a hurry, and the lock, although relatively simple, is massive to the point where no mere man or woman could operate it. The door itself does not appear to be magical; indeed it appears to be the very antithesis of magical, because the metal itself drinks in and disrupts any magic aimed at it. It is, suffice it to say, utterly impervious to spells.

To open this vault door from the outside requires a team of a minimum dozen goblins with ropes and pulleys, and at least one large security troll to turn the key in the lock.

And inside the vault… inside _this_ vault lies a mechanical marvel, crafted by Arabian wizards of a fabled age, to the specifications and designs of Salazar Slytherin.

It is a gleaming construction of brass and bronze, the size of several elephants, built by those who inherited the knowledge and skills of the sages of ancient Greece and Alexandria.

Steam occasionally hisses from valves. Long metal pointers on dials scribed with Arabic and Gobbledegook numerals twitch back and forth. Complex arrangements of orbs that represent and are in tune with the long slow dance of the major celestial bodies and constellations of the very heavens almost imperceptibly oscillate about each other.

And fine pendulums and crystals hanging from cords swing and bob in reaction to the ebb and flow of events in the world of men – to the rise and fall of leaders and of dark lords. Twice so far, since the wizard Salazar Slytherin (with the aid of Tsar Berendey) sent it here from the Russian steppe, everything almost aligned to release the contents of this mechanism. Twice, so far, the wizarding world teetered nearly to the brink of apocalypse but swung back. Twice were witches and wizards unwittingly saved by mortal men and women who for their lack of magical-powers those selfsame witches and wizards would for the greater part despise.

But not this time. The late spring of 1976 is giving way to early summer and in the air above Britain a flock of things which are both more and less than the swans which they seem are winging their way northwards. James Potter was destined to play a part in defeating a dark lord of _this_ century, but now one older and deadlier has suddenly arisen and put his hand on the board. A young woman scorned a Slytherin, telling him that he had chosen his path when in fact it was _she_ who had conclusively chosen _hers_.

Except she _hadn't_. Or not the one she thought, with Von Rothbert's minions in the wind, storming towards Hogwarts on a summer gale.

But she has called the darkness down, and consigned the other to it, or so she ought to have done, if nothing else were in play.

Yet there is, and Nicolas Flamel lies in a pool of his own blood, his wife crying over him in the wake of the tornado of the things which are not swans which tore through their house in Normandy on their way to and from other errands; archives are aflame in the Vatican, in Geneva, and in Munich; Grindelwald was made an offer he refused and has been slain in his turn in Nurmengard; and a messenger is on its way to meet with Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The wizarding world is in crisis and it knows it not. Not _yet_.

In the Gringotts vault gears whirr and click, and in a remote office of a manager of the bank, for the first time in centuries an alarm bell slowly begins to toll.

This was a move made almost a thousand years ago for a fight that might never even _happen_. This is war, and Salazar Slytherin's last great gambit is about to commence to play. The one nobody in their right mind in this day and age should have been expecting. Not even Von Rothbert.

After all, there comes a point where it's _unreasonable_ to expect a long dead wizard to possess the foresight and almost insane genius to plan something like this, right? Even when that wizard is Salazar Slytherin?

Gears deep inside the contraption that have not turned for centuries begin to slowly grind and clank now in the opposite direction to that in which they last turned, catches release, and – with a shrill blast on several whistles – several panels pop open around the flanks of the artefact, exposing a bewildering multi-part combination lock. And very soon, although he knows it not, an underage wizard will be on his way to open it…

* * *

Author Notes:

I'm not clear on when in canon the British goblins of the Harry Potter universe formally became bankers, but even before that date, I think if the price was right and a foreign potentate was making the offer, they'd be happy to store something long-term.

To some extent this piece is inspired by a documentary I recently saw about the 'Antikythera Mechanism', an archeological find dating back to ancient Greece.

'Von Rothbert' is a name I borrowed from _Swan Lake_, and in this universe belongs to a very old dark lord of the wizarding world who's been biding his time.

'Tsar Berendey' is a name I've borrowed from _The Snow Maiden_. I'm a bit vague on the storyline, but I'm very familiar with the Tchaikovsky music for it, and 'Tsar Berendey' (whom I take to be some figure from Russian folklore) gets an absolutely fabulous march.

I have only a few vague notions of where this story could go from here; one of the ones which I do have is that if this ever gets developed this piece is likely to be renamed something along the lines of 'Firebird: Overture' (or possibly would figure as a chapter called 'Overture' in a story called 'Firebird'.

Now back to rewriting (again) other things.


	2. Scene by a Different Lake

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter.

Note: This is becoming something distinctly alternate universe. Although many of the players in place as of 1976, when the crisis point is reached, are approximately as canon, the 'backstory' of events which happened in the previous thousand years or so goes well beyond anything suggested in canon.

* * *

_There is fire in the icy darkness of the sleep of the ages which is like almost unto death, and there are dreams – there are dreams of a lake. _

_In the dreams it is always shortly after the turn of the millennium – by the Christian calendar, which is becoming so popular – and the eve of the Spring Equinox. The Tsar and his court are arrayed in sumptuous splendour, and all the witches and warlocks of his realm have been summoned for this great gathering and feast. This is the seventh such gathering he has called in the short years since the foreign wizard came to these shores, from the remote fens of the Angles. _

_There are three centres of especial attention in this gathering; this gathering ringed with archers with orders to shoot any bird in the air or on the land or water – for von Rothbert may have been beaten, and be licking his wounds, but he is by no means destroyed, and precautions are sensible. _

_The first such centre of attention is a peculiar device of gleaming brass and bronze, which stands under an awning all of its very own. _

_The second is the pavilion of the Tsar himself, and the adjacent dais where he and his immediate retinue and their guards sit when watching proceedings in general in the festival. _

_The third is the place where the Tsar's seers and diviners gather around a prophecy globe, held aloft on a pillar of Siberian granite. But this is no ordinary prophecy globe, nor any ordinary prophecy; this is a great globe of crystal, the span of which is at least the length of a man's arm, and it is filled with fire. And the Tsar has required the witches and warlocks of the gathering to in turns circle this globe, to be whittled down by his seers and diviners, until either none remain, or there is but one left. _

_Six times before this gathering has been called in the past seasons, for this particular purpose, and six times it has failed. _

_But not this time. _

_Three remain – three young women in the choosing – and they are a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead. Suddenly the Tsar's seers and diviners look interested, and in the shadow of the pillar of the great globe, there is a drawing of lots. _

_And Natalya, of the red hair, is chosen. _

_She is led into the presence of the Tsar and his scarlet-and-gold clad advisor from the lands of the Angles, and questioned by the Tsar and his advisor. She trembles to be in the presence of such powerful and learned men. _

_The man from the west – his name is Salazar she discovers – seems interested that Latin is amongst her scholarly achievements. _

_The Tsar and Salazar withdraw, to confer in private. _

_At last the Tsar returns. _

_There is a sacrifice needed, he explains to Natalya, but it must be voluntary. For it is a truly terrible sacrifice, conceived as necessity against the possible rise once more in power of the great enemy, von Rothbert – who though he is in abeyance right now, may recover to become greater and deadlier than ever, at some as yet distant point in the future. _

_And the sacrifice is necessary in case with the passing of the years the hearts of men and women are sufficiently turned to darkness, and memories wane to the point that von Rothbert cannot be defeated by any circumstance of that future age – for von Rothbert is wily and old in years already, and likely only to grow the more so. It may be that in such times the knowledge and means of even potentially making his undoing are completely lost. _

_It is possible of course that von Rothbert may never rise to such heights. It is possible that an opportunity to put himself beyond the schemes or powers of any of an age will never come to his hand – for there is great weakness at times in his schemes against those without spells or magic of the arcane kind. That is part of what makes the sacrifice so terrible. That is why the Tsar deems that it must be voluntary – for it is a sacrifice whose fruits may not ever be needed. _

_For the first time in such a choosing, someone has been indicated as currently having the necessary potential – Natalya. She is being asked to choose if she wishes to take the sacrifice upon herself? There is no shame or dishonour in refusing, the Tsar explains. There is no lack of merit in wishing to live out the rest of one's days in peace. He can call further such gatherings. There is, at present, no great need or rush. _

_Natalya chooses. _

_The fire of the great globe rages, and she freezes like ice. _

_And the work of the wonder-makers of distant Baghdad becomes a coffin and a tomb. _

_And the stars turn in the heavens, and the world voyages ever onwards through the gulfs of the day and the night, and Natalya and her sacrifice are forgotten as courts rise and fall and the days of the Tsar and his foreign wizard pass into myth scarce recalled even in the lands where once the Tsar ruled. _

_And outside the darkness of the sleep of the ages the menace of the swans-that-are-not-quite-such burgeons again, until there comes a day of another scene, by another lake, and von Rothbert reaches forth with talons to tear history asunder and to beat fate into tools for his own use. _

_And Natalya is forgotten. _

_And all should be lost. _

_And there is a clang of a bell in a brazen darkness, and as the swans go forth on von Rothbert's bidding, to do their best to ensure that one young woman of this latter age should have doomed all, an owl is loosed into the evening skies from Gringotts with a message to race those even now crossing Europe on many errands – a race to a fortress in the Scottish Highlands which once the Tsar's foreign guest knew. _

_It should be close, but von Rothbert has many errands and tasks for his servants and his vanity is great. And he has not forgotten Salazar Slytherin – not once in more than nine centuries – but he considers him nothing more now than an insult and an old injury to be avenged. _

_The head of Slytherin house will receive the owl in time, and for a while at least defiance might count for more than mere illusion._

* * *

Author Notes: (Subject to updates)

To some extent this chapter owes its inspiration to Igor Stravinsky's _Rite of Spring_, in addition to other sources mentioned previously.

It amused me that even though the colours of Slytherin House (at Hogwarts) are silver and green, that Salazar Slytherin himself might actually quite like dressing in red and gold. This is almost certainly non-canon, but this _is_ an alternate universe.

Thanks to the early reviewer of the first installment who commented on the almost poetic feel that had. That was the effect which I was aiming for, as it is with this chapter. I would have responded by private message before now, but it was a 'guest' review...

One reviewer has made an interesting observation regarding when the term 'tsar' came into usage. Online sources seem to indicate that Ivan IV in the mid 16th century was the first (real-world) ruler known to adopt the title. At this point, I'm erring towards Berendey (who is a fictional ruler anyway) having made use of the title earlier. It's derived from the Latin title _caesar_ in any case, which was known in Europe since the 1st century. Berendey simply adopted it into Russian for his own usage some centuries ahead of its known historical usage (and it could perhaps be assumed to have fallen out of use with his passing).


	3. Eventide

Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter.

Note: This is alternate universe. Although many of the players in place as of 1976, as the crisis point is reached, are approximately as canon, events which have happened hundreds of years before go well beyond anything indicated in canon. And in this instalment the story goes firmly off the rails of canon.

* * *

The timpani thunder of kettledrums rolls around the slightly dusty evening air of a potions classroom in the Hogwarts dungeons, emanating from what looks like an old-fashioned gramophone. The handle of the aforementioned gramophone seems to crank itself as a vinyl record featuring Tchaikovsky's 5th symphony rotates on the turntable at the prescribed thirty-three and a third revolutions per minute. The underlying scents and sounds which permeate the air are those of a supervised early-evening detention preparing potions ingredients, awarded to one particular pupil for fighting with those of another house.

Professor Horace Slughorn, the nominal supervisor of this detention, occasionally marks time to the symphony with twitches and flourishes of his quill as he assesses essays, even occasionally pausing in his labours to seemingly conduct the unseen orchestra, wielding the feather in his hand as if it were a conductor's baton.

Fifth year pupil Severus Snape, the pupil being detained at the school's pleasure, is hunched on a stool in a corner, with a large barrel of flobberworms, and the unedifying task of extracting mucus from them for use in future classes.

The room is otherwise empty of sentient life forms, at least for now. Once in a while Severus Snape emits a small disgusted noise as he handles a particularly slippery customer.

"You've only got yourself to blame, acting all Gryffindor and running a feud with so many of the headmaster's favourite pupils." Professor Slughorn says in response to one of these expressions of disgust. "And you're lucky I was able to intervene and offer to supervise this detention. Professor McGonagall would have had you spreading manure on Hagrid's pumpkin patch, if she'd had her way."

Severus makes a small, exasperated, noise, but makes no other response. There's only so much it's safe to say about the headmaster, the deputy headmistress, or their favourite Gryffindors, when one of those involved in the conversation is a member of staff.

The turntable continues to rotate, the kettledrums pound on, the weaving strings soar and fall, and everything proceeds for several more minutes, much as it was before, until the sense of orderly disciplinary proceedings of the room is shattered by the 'pop' of an apparating Hogwarts house-elf clutching a pecking, struggling, squawking owl. That the house-elf's tea-towel, face, and arms exhibit only a handful of superficial scratches are a testament to its dexterity and wiry strength.

"Message for Professor Slughorn!" the elf says, trying to contain the owl without half-killing it. "Message from _Gringotts_, which vicious owl is not wanting to let Hogwarts house-elves take from it to deliver to Professor Slughorn, sir – so elves are delivering owl instead! _Urgent_ message from Gringotts."

"Bring the bird here then." Horace affably instructs the elf, setting down his quill.

The elf duly obliges, and the owl allows itself to be placed onto the desk. It settles down at once, and proffers the message it carries to Professor Slughorn. He takes it, fumbles in a pocket for a moment, and places a couple of owl biscuits on the workbench in front of the owl, which it starts to peck at, whilst Professor Slughorn unrolls the scroll. He frowns and reads it through, then reads it through again. The house elf stares expectantly, and Severus Snape gets on with his flobberworms, pausing to retrieve one particularly bothersome specimen from the floor.

Professor Slughorn _frowns_, more deeply this time, as he reads the scroll through for a _third_ time.

The owl, having finished the biscuits, pecks at the quill which Professor Slughorn has just been marking with.

Professor Slughorn looks up, a _thoughtful_ expression on his face.

"No written reply. I'll come as fast as I can." Professor Slughorn tells the owl, then turns to the elf. "Take it outside and let it go."

The elf grabs the owl, and disappears with it with a pop.

"Severus:" Professor Slughorn says, pulling a face. "Something has come up. Since I promised Minerva you'd have at least three hours of detention tonight, which I'd personally supervise, you'll just have to come with me. Clear up here and meet me at the front door in twenty minutes. I'll write you a brief note in case you bump into anyone on patrol."

The Professor picks up his now somewhat mangled quill, eyes it mournfully for a moment, then reaches for a scrap of parchment and scratches across it briefly.

"Oh, and Severus:" Professor Slughorn says. "Try to look smart. We're going to be going to the _bank_, in Diagon Alley. Apparently some important sounding foreigner has left Slytherin house some sort of bequest or legacy, and the Head of Slytherin is expected to inquire for it in person. Sufficiently important that 'call at once, regardless of our usual opening times' is the motto for the day. This is either an exceptional hoax – in which case the goblins will be furious that someone's imitating their owls and stationary – or something _most_ interesting is going on."

Professor Slughorn takes up the missive purportedly from Gringotts and departs the classroom, arresting the symphony with a flick of his wand at the gramophone in mid-bar as he goes.

Severus does his best to tidy up the flobberworm processing that he has been doing, rinses his hands clean in a sink, then collects the note Professor Slughorn had written for him and departs himself less than a minute after the Professor. His mind is calculating routes, what steps he should take (given his highly limited wardrobe) to make himself look 'smart', plotting revenge on James Potter and his gang, considering matters of the dark arts, and lamenting the termination of his association with Lily Evans as he goes.

* * *

Professor Slughorn gives Severus a brief once-over look when they rendezvous at the front door of the school.

"That's 'smart'?" Professor Slughorn enquires. He, himself, has divested himself of his teaching clothes, and is resplendent in emerald green silk trousers and waistcoat with a large black cloak over them secured with a matching silver serpents and chain clasp.

"That's all my family can afford, sir." Severus responds. He's wearing barely functional black 'everyday' robes.

"Oh well, if I'd known, but still…" the Professor ponders. "…And it would be an insult to the goblins to use conjured or transfigured finery. Come along Severus, we haven't got all evening."

A rapid walk across the grounds as rain starts to fall from ominous bruised skies sees the two wizards to the main gates, where Professor Slughorn lets them out and then with a discreet _pop_ the head of Slytherin apparates them elsewhere.

A wind starts to get up, as the shadows spread and merge and the gloom deepens. The lights of the castle glow in stark contrast to the gathering dark. The strange and terrible musical cries of things that wear the shapes of birds are heard, eerie in the evening gloom, and then out of sky they drop, piercing effortlessly through the castle wards as if they were not there.

The first wave of 'swans' land on the uppermost battlements of the castle, transforming into two-dozen white-cloaked and robed women, almost unnaturally beautiful to behold, the perfection of their apparel only marred by the occasional reddish brown splash of somebody else's blood or a smudge of ash from an encounter already earlier in this busy evening. As one they reach to their belts, and the ominous _hiss_ of twenty-four swords simultaneously being drawn fills the air – weapons with blades that have a chilling blue glow to their silvery edges.

Hogwarts was once – in actual operation as well as in mere appearance – a castle, patrolled by ceaseless sentries either living or spell-conjured, and defended by the likes of Godric Gryffindor or Salazar Slytherin.

Now it is but only a school, which for practical purposes may as well be housed in a modern muggle concrete architectural abomination as a thousand year old castle, in so much as it is unprepared and practically defenceless against anything capable of getting through the wards.

The vanguard of the invaders sweep from the battlements, swords in hand, as the next wave circles and then swoops in to land…

* * *

The sounds of fighting and the panicked shouts and screams of the students spread rapidly through Hogwarts' halls. The invaders are seemingly impervious to almost anything that the upper year students and teachers essay against them. They dodge most direct attacks from wands with impossible speed and grace, and only occasionally switch from a two-handed grip on a sword to a one-handed one, to gather a handful of some baleful violet arcane fire in the 'freed up' hand to hurl it to quench some area-effecting dweomer or to demolish furnishings, doors, or architecture with explosive blasts. They cleave through Hogwarts much as the blades they carry seem unstoppable by almost anything, and only that they seem otherwise disposed results in anything other than a massacre. They injure, maim, and break, seemingly at will, but they do not _slay_. They _do_ frequently pause to interrogate – and their questions always seem to be as to the locations of a handful of Gryffindor pupils and of _Horace Slughorn_ – and they leave a wide trail of the crippled and unconscious in their wake, to be dragged to a rapidly overwhelmed infirmary.

Seven of them, having done _something_ to his phoenix which blasts it to ash, trap the headmaster in his office, seeming almost to toy with him, circling and dodging in and out and weaving a web of shining metal all around him that keeps even a wizard of his expertise pinned back firmly on the defensive.

Others busy themselves in the library, piling up and burning books. Although they are highly selective in ensuring that _specific_ tomes go into the flames, they seem uncaring of the fires spreading, as overstrained and broken enchantments against fire fail. They themselves flit through the crackling hungry fire, silver and white phantoms – or devils – untouched by the ravages of that which reduces so much fact and fiction to unreadable ash.

Three invade Gryffindor Tower and the girls' dormitories, tearing through furniture and ripping plaster and panelling from the walls apparently looking for _something_. They pay the occupants the bare minimum of attention necessary to keep them incapacitated or cowering in corners.

And the dungeons are scoured and ransacked, pupils tossed all over the place, threatened and beaten as the invaders ever seek the head of Slytherin.

Finally, the fires and mayhem spread to the greenhouses, where certain collections of plants are ruthlessly hacked down and the soil _literally sown with salt_.

And then, as abruptly as they came, they fall back to the battlements and withdraw, several of them hauling in their bird forms a swaying net containing a lone unconscious student from amongst the fifth years of Gryffindor through the rain-streaked air behind them.

Some of the pupils and staff battle to contain the raging fires; the nurse and other staff and remaining bodily able upper-year pupils try to treat an infirmary full of the walking (or otherwise) wounded.

And a shocked Albus Dumbledore, as his phoenix belatedly emerges as a chick from the ash on his desk, strives to make sense of what has just happened, and comes up massively short, at least for now.

* * *

Author Notes: (subject to update depending on reviews)

This chapter may be reworded in places for a more satisfactory effect. I'm not entirely sure at present (June, 2013) if it 'works' yet. What actually _happens_ in the chapter will likely go unchanged, irrespective of rewording.

Tsar Berendey is the 'important sounding foreigner' mentioned in the missive that Horace Slughorn receives.

Updates to this one seem to currently come along when I'm stuck in the middle of tricky spells of other stories.


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